


Toward the End of Time

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kyle is back in South Park for Thanksgiving. Stan gets in touch, as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toward the End of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the second time I've borrowed this title from a John Updike book I've never read, but the last time was for a Lost fanfic that like 5 people read, so it's okay, I think. This fic is sad, so if you're not in the mood for a sad fic it should probably be avoided.

  
Stan wakes to what he thinks is Sparky chewing on the wicker basket full of Stan's toys. As his consciousness solidifies he realizes that can't be right. Though he is sleeping alone in his childhood bedroom, he's fifty-five years old, Sparky died forty years ago, and the majority of those toys were long ago donated to Good Will or whatever organization his mother chose. He looks to the window and realizes what that sound actually is: sleet.  
  
It still seems strange to have sleet at this time of year and not heavy snow, though the weather has been screwy since Stan was in his twenties, not just in Colorado but all over the world. Something about listening to those angry little balls of frozen rain pelt the window makes him long for Kyle, and though it's after two o'clock in the morning, he grabs his phone from the bedside table. Kyle will be at his parents' house, home for the holiday, and he always stays up all night when he's there, kept awake by the cacophony of memories in his own childhood bedroom.  
  
"I'm surprised you're awake," Kyle says when he answers. They haven't spoken in almost a year, since the last time Kyle was in South Park for the holidays, but it feels easy already, late at night like this, as if Stan has only rolled over and prodded Kyle's side during a sleepover.  
  
"Is it sleeting there?" Stan asks. "You're at your parents' house, right?"  
  
"Yes, and of course it is. I'm like three miles away from you."  
  
"Yeah." The thought is draining, and comforting. "When'd you get in?"  
  
"This afternoon. Ike's coming tomorrow, with the kids."  
  
"Mhmm." Stan might be too raw for even this kind of small talk, alone in his twin bed with the sleet and the looming holiday. Even hearing Kyle mention Ike's children makes him feel heavy and cold, corpse-like. "Shelly's not coming down this year," he says.  
  
"Oh? So, but. You and Randy--"  
  
"We'll be here, with Jimbo. He fries a turkey. Cartman and Butters will come over, and Ned, you know. It's fine. Shelly will call. I'll get her on Skype with my dad."  
  
"How's he doing?" Kyle asks, and Stan can hear how cautious he is with this question, not really wanting to ask or know.  
  
"Eh." Stan doesn't want to talk about it either. "The same. How are your folks?" He doesn't want to discuss any of this, actually. He has other, late night things on his mind. More abstract concerns.  
  
"They're fine," Kyle says. He sighs. "How was your -- year?"  
  
"You know, uh. Another year in South Park. How's Dallas?"  
  
"Ugh. I still can't believe I live there. But the job is good, it's good. There's actually a restaurant culture there, sort of. I mean, Houston is better, but not so much so that it's worth the three hour drive. You should come visit," he says, unconvincingly.  
  
"I don't know. Yeah, maybe. I'm not that into leaving dad with Jimbo. He's getting kind of loopy himself, and with Ned -- who can tell."  
  
"Sure. Well, look. We should get together, while you're in town." There's a long pause, and Stan rides it out, swallowing heavily, afraid he knows what's coming. "Are you," Kyle says. There's some indistinct shuffling. "Going to see Charlie?"  
  
"Uh-huh," Stan says, as steadily as he can. He hesitates, then says, "You could come."  
  
Kyle says nothing, but Stan can hear him breathing a little harder, trying to hold everything in. When he closes his eyes, he feels like they're in the same room.  
  
"I don't think so," Kyle says. "After all this time - no. He probably doesn't even remember me, so. What would be the point?"  
  
"He remembers. But whatever, you know, whatever you want to do. I'd like to see you, yeah. What are you doing tomorrow?"  
  
"Shopping with Mom, cooking. Cleaning, I guess, though she keeps this place worryingly spotless. I'm afraid she's getting a little loopy herself, you know, she repeats herself a lot."  
  
"Your dad's still pretty sharp, though. He comes over here once in a while, watches football with us."  
  
"Really?" Kyle sounds almost upset to hear this. "Wow. I didn't know."  
  
"I was just thinking about my old dog," Stan says, tired of discussing their aging parents. "Sparky, remember?"  
  
"Of course I remember! The gay dog."  
  
"Yeah, he was as gay as they came."  
  
"Are you seeing anyone?" Kyle asks, and Stan snorts at that transition.  
  
"Kyle, it's South Park. Who would I see?"  
  
"I don't know, Jesus. Denver's not that far. You're still good looking."  
  
"Right. Who are you seeing, these days?"  
  
"You assume I'm dating!"  
  
"Well, are you?"  
  
"Not really." Kyle sighs in a way that tells Stan he's lying. Kyle loves the ease of internet dating among men of his generation. Even in Texas, the gay hookup culture is probably thriving. All the known STDs are a thing of the past, but Stan still worries that new ones will evolve. He's not worried for himself but for Kyle, who still enjoys anonymous sex, something he'll only admit when drinking late at night, in South Park, after the holidays.  
  
"Nobody special?" Stan says, aching and angry with himself for wanting to know.  
  
"Nah. It's Dallas."  
  
"You say that like I know Dallas."  
  
"Well, you can imagine, can't you? Stan, goddammit. Why are you calling?"  
  
"Jesus." He's hurt by that, but also kind of pleased that they can dispense with the bullshit now. "It was the sleet."  
  
"The sleet?"  
  
"It made me think of you."  
  
"Should I be flattered by that, or offended somehow?"  
  
"Flattered," Stan says. "It's like. Extreme weather. Or just, unpleasant weather, it makes me think of you."  
  
"Gee, thanks!"  
  
"No, because. Uh. It's that cozy feeling, you know? When you're indoors, and the weather's out there, and the wind--" He rolls his eyes at himself; he's starting to sound like his father. "It just makes me wish you were here."  
  
"Well," Kyle says, softly. "I am, in a sense. I'm near."  
  
"Not near enough."  
  
Kyle sighs, and Stan pictures him in his childhood bedroom, which has been stripped of its proto-Kyle traits and turned into a generic guest room. Kyle is almost definitely in bed with his touch screen, probably with the old fashioned keyboard attachment plugged in, some new age porn on one side of the screen and a consult memo for work on the other side. He's probably under a couple of big comforters, wearing underwear and a baggy sweater, scowling at the screen from behind his glasses. It's very likely that he's dyed his hair recently, for the occasion, a loud shade that doesn't quite match his old red. He's terrified of having white hair. Ever since he got the first few in his late thirties he's dyed his hair religiously, afraid that white curls would make him look like a little old lady.  
  
"Are you trying to tempt me to walk over there, through the sleet?" Kyle asks. "Because it's working," he says, more quietly.  
  
"No, hey. Don't go out in the sleet for me. I'm just being, you know. Sentimental. We'll get together tomorrow. How about lunch? Me and Dad could come over to your parents' place."  
  
"Ugh, no, I don't want to reunite under my mother's watch. You could leave Randy here, though, they could look after him for an hour. Me and you could go to that stupid bistro."  
  
"I love that stupid bistro."  
  
"I know you do, Stan."  
  
"Then it's a date." Stan smiles into the phone, his eyes filling up. He's not really going to cry, he's just embarrassed by this sudden swell of happiness. "See you around noon."  
  
"Sure thing." Kyle sounds worried. "Stan--"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Ah, I don't know. Stay warm. See you tomorrow."  
  
Stan hangs up and sets the phone back in its charger gently, as if Kyle is contained within it. The sleet is still coming down, loud against the window. He puts his back to it and hugs his pillow, resisting the urge to get out of bed and look at old pictures. He'll see Kyle soon enough, tomorrow.  
  
**  
  
In the morning, Stan wakes early as usual and checks in on his father before showering. Randy is still asleep, and Stan takes his time under the hot water, wondering if he should try to get any work done today. He started working from home when his father's mental facilities began to deteriorate five years ago, almost immediately following Sharon's death. Stan uses the garage as his workshop, and he doesn't make much money from his carpentry business, but it's enough for him and Randy to get by, in combination with Randy's social security checks and what's left of Sharon's life insurance policy. Shelly helps out when she can, but she lives in Michigan and rarely visits. She was always closer to Sharon, and it's not like Randy even remembers he has a daughter, most days.  
  
By the time Stan is done in the shower he can hear Randy rustling around in his room. He resists the urge to go investigate and heads down to start breakfast. Lately he's scaled back his intrusions to times when he can hear an incriminating thud from within Randy's bedroom, lest he be snapped at for not giving Randy any privacy. Half the time Randy thinks Stan is his roommate, and that they're two guys in their twenties who are living together while Randy finishes his graduate degree in Geology. This has resulted in some interesting deposits of rocks and minerals from the yard on the dining room table, and Randy's claims to be doing 'ground breaking research,' no pun intended.  
  
"Smells like a special occasion!" Randy says when he comes into the kitchen to find Stan making French toast with some stale sourdough bread. For a moment Stan can hear his dad's old, real self in this exclamation, and he turns from the stove to smile. His face falls when he sees that Randy has forgone pants. He's at least wearing a pair of briefs under what appears to be one of Sharon's old sweaters. "You have a lady friend over or something?" Randy asks, winking.  
  
"No," Stan says. "Just felt like making a real breakfast. You want some?"  
  
"Sure, bro."  
  
"Aren't you cold?" Stan asks when he brings breakfast to the table. "I could get you a robe."  
  
"Nah, why bother? It's not like we have any chicks here in the house. Unless you're hiding one upstairs."  
  
"I'm not hiding anybody, Dad."  
  
Randy is obsessed with these insinuations that Stan is getting with lots of women and not sharing the details with him. Sometimes Stan wants to shout at him, _I'm gay, remember, I was married to a man for eleven years_. He's still married to Kyle, technically, though he's not in the habit of reminding anybody about this, least of all Kyle.  
  
After they've eaten, Stan prods Randy to bathe, unable to remember if he did so the day before. Though Randy's dementia leaves him in a state of near-constant confusion, he's lucid enough so far to take basic care of himself as long as Stan is there to direct him. Stan knows the day will come when this is no longer the case, and he's already dreading having to beg Shelly for the money for an in-home nurse. Her husband, Eddie, will remind Stan that he and Shelly put four children through college and aren't rolling in "free money," which is his term for Randy's social security checks. He'll ask why Stan can't just graduate to wiping Randy's ass along with the rest of his duties, since it's not like he's got anything better to do.  
  
Stan tries to propel himself into a better mood on the way to the Broflovski house, Randy buckled into the passenger seat and dressed normally enough for mixed company. Randy at least is cheerful, willingly making the trip out of the house instead of fighting Stan the whole way like he sometimes does. It's also been a good day in the sense that Randy hasn't yet implied that Sharon is still alive somewhere and cheating on him.  
  
"Shit, is tomorrow Christmas?" Randy asks when they drive past a man who is putting holiday lights up in his yard.  
  
"Thanksgiving," Stan says.  
  
"Oh, Jesus, good. For a minute there I thought I forgot to get you kids presents."  
  
"You don't need to get us presents, Dad. We're grown."  
  
Randy goes quiet then, frowning out the window. Stan never knows when to correct him or if he should bother; sometimes he just can't stop himself. He turns on the radio, tuning it to classic rock, which Randy usually finds soothing.  
  
"What about the turkey, though?" Randy asks as they're pulling up to Kyle's parents' house. "Did your mom remember to defrost it? She forgot, that one year."  
  
"We're doing turkey with Jimbo tomorrow. I'm sure he shot it himself, so no defrosting necessary. Look, we're at Sheila and Gerald's house. They're expecting you for lunch, okay?"  
  
"Okay," Randy says, mumbling.  
  
The sleet from the night before has frozen over on the driveway and front walk, and Stan holds Randy's arm to keep him from slipping. He had a bad fall last year and his doctor has suggested that a hip replacement might be imminent. Stan doesn't even want to think about it. Randy is cranky enough when he can putter around the house on his own, and his mobility has forestalled any kind of bathroom-related interventions by Stan so far. Sometimes Stan thinks his mother had the right idea, though he's still angry with Sharon for putting off a doctor's visit long enough to let her undiagnosed pneumonia lead to lung failure and death. It was as if she'd simply decided that it wasn't worth the trouble anymore, that it was time to put up her feet and let herself fade away. Stan was living in Denver at the time, completely unaware that she'd been under the weather for more than a week. Randy was inconsolable, and he lost his grip on reality within a month of the funeral.  
  
"There you are!" Sheila bellows when she opens the door. She dyes her hair, too, a slightly softer shade of red than the natural one that has long faded. She's still hefty and vivacious, still loud. Randy is younger than her but frail and gray in comparison, and he often cowers a bit in her presence. This doesn't stop her from sweeping him into the house with a hug. "Happy Thanksgiving!" she says, and she hugs Stan, too. "I know it's a day early, but I've already started cooking, so it feels close enough. Come in, come in! Kyle is here!"  
  
Stan wonders if she really wasn't aware that he knew Kyle was home. He finds Kyle in the kitchen, drinking tea, and when they smile at each other it feels warm and real, like a rickety old heater has coughed back to life in Stan's chest. Stan has to hold back a little when they embrace, wanting to cling harder and for so much longer.  
  
"You look good," Kyle says when he pulls back, and Stan snorts. "What? You do. You could use a shave."  
  
"I guess so." Stan runs his fingers over his half-hearted beard, having mostly forgotten that it's there. Kyle is clean shaven as always; he thinks it makes him look younger. "Where are your glasses?" Stan asks.  
  
"Oh, I got Lasik. Finally! Can you believe it? I just thought, what the hell. I guess it takes me about sixty years or so to trust a technology. How's your dad?" he asks, speaking more quietly. Randy is in the living room with Sheila, muttering answers to her many questions, which are spoken in a condescending, carefully enunciated tone that Stan resents.  
  
"He's alright. Where's Gerald?"  
  
"Upstairs in his bathroom with the newspaper, where else? He'll be down soon. Should we go?"  
  
"Already?" Stan glances at the oven clock; it's barely noon.  
  
"I have to get out of here," Kyle mutters. He squeezes Stan's arm. "Ike is on his way from the airport. I can't bear the way she gets flustered with joy when the whole clan pours through the front door."  
  
"Okay." Stan nods, not wanting to witness that himself. "Let's go. I made a reservation."  
  
"Oh, Stan! Do you really need one at this place?"  
  
"Sure, um. It's where people bring their relatives when they come into town." He feels strange, saying this, because Kyle is still the closest thing he has to real family, and he's not sure the feeling is mutual.  
  
They leave for the restaurant, Sheila promising that Randy will be just fine. Stan always gets a little panicked when his dad is out of sight, but he's more glad to be with Kyle than he is worried about Randy. It's cold but very bright outside, the sky cloudless after the sleety night.  
  
"This car is still running?" Kyle says as he climbs into the passenger seat of Stan's old Toyota.  
  
"Let's see." Stan starts the engine and nods. "Seems so."  
  
"I hope we won't see anyone we know," Kyle says, pulling down the passenger side mirror to inspect his hair, which has indeed been recently dyed, glowing with chemical color.  
  
"I'm sure we will," Stan says. "I mean, what is South Park but a bunch of people we know?"  
  
"It kills me to think of you living here," Kyle says, reaching over to place his hand on Stan's thigh. It's the most sexually charged thing that's happened to Stan since the last time they saw each other, and he's surprised and pleased to find that he's partially aroused, driving around with Kyle's hand on him. "It just kills me, Stan," Kyle says again, staring at him and waiting for a response.  
  
"Well," Stan says. "It's not so bad, for now."  
  
"For now? Stan, you'll be sixty in five years!"  
  
"Five years is a long time. A lot can happen."  
  
Five years ago he was living with Kyle in Denver, for instance. Five years ago, Sharon was alive and Randy was still working part time for Park County Geological Services, perfectly capable. Stan doesn't need to say any of this out loud; Kyle knows all of it and is silenced by the reminder, but he leaves his hand on Stan's thigh, squeezing him there.  
  
The bistro is crowded, as Stan predicted. The hostess is Kevin Stoley's twenty-something daughter. She greets Stan by name but doesn't seem to know who Kyle is. Stan inspects the other tables as they're lead to theirs, a nice one by the front windows. He's glad not to see anyone who he'll be expected to stop and talk to on the way out.  
  
"Wow, the same menu," Kyle says. "You'd think -- oh, never mind." He puts the menu down. "I won't be snobby. Just tell me all the gossip I've missed since the last time I was here."  
  
"I'm surprised Sheila didn't fill you in." Stan sips from his ice water, wondering if he should order a beer. He wants to prove to Kyle that he doesn't drink as much as he used to, but also wants a beer.  
  
"She told me some things. I can't believe Wendy is still married to that putz. Do you -- I assume she's home for the holidays? Has she been in touch?"  
  
"Not yet." Stan did get a text message from her, but he hasn't responded yet and doesn't want Kyle to think that he's been eager to reconnect with her, because he hasn't been.  
  
"I assume Token is still with his wife, too?" Kyle says, raising his eyebrows. Stan shrugs.  
  
"I guess so." It's a South Park tradition for Wendy and Token to cheat on their spouses with each other during Thanksgiving and sometimes Christmas, if they're both in town. Wendy usually cries to Stan about it at least once before she returns to Massachusetts, where she lives with her husband, who doesn't make the trip with her anymore. Even when he did, she would find some way to sneak off with Token. Stan has never been particularly interested in this phenomenon, but Kyle and most others in town are. Token is a local celebrity, though he lives in California, where he's on the panel of a nationally broadcast morning show that Stan doesn't watch.  
  
"How about Clyde?" Kyle asks. "Craig? They're all still married?"  
  
"Sure. I don't really keep in touch with those guys, but Kenny would probably tell me, uh. If there was news."  
  
Kyle picks up the menu to study it again, and Stan regrets bringing up Kenny. He wants to reach across the table and hold Kyle's wrists, which look so delicate, protruding from the pressed cuffs of his button-down shirt. He's gotten kind of skinny in certain places, though he's still thick through his middle.  
  
"How often do you see Kenny?" Kyle asks after the waitress has taken their drink orders: hot tea with lemon for Kyle, beer for Stan.  
  
"Not too often. He's, uh. You know, he still manages the movie theater. But I don't go to that many movies."  
  
"But you see him socially."  
  
"Sometimes. Usually just if I'm visiting Charlie."  
  
"And he's fine?"  
  
Stan feels his throat closing up. He's gotten past all of this, mostly, but when he's faced with Kyle and how angry he still is, it all comes back.  
  
"He's good," Stan says. "I saw him on his birthday. He started grad school in the fall, up in Fort Collins. Economic something or other."  
  
"There's no way he's that old." Kyle is rubbing his hands over his face. He ignores the waiter when his tea arrives. "Economics -- I thought he was majoring in Chinese?"  
  
"He was -- he did. But this is, like. What he wants to use the Chinese for, I guess."  
  
"He sounds very ambitious." Kyle says this as if it's a liability, or something he would have put a stop to, though he has several advanced degrees himself. "And Kenny's still with the second wife, I imagine?"  
  
"Yep. Their oldest girl just started college." Stan has never referred to Kenny's second round of children by name in Kyle's presence.  
  
"Well, how fantastic," Kyle says bitterly. He takes a roll from the basket that arrived with the drinks and tears it in half. Eating it seems to calm him somewhat, and he smiles when he meets Stan's eyes again. "I'm so glad you're here," he says. "I wouldn't be able to stomach Ike's brood without having you close at hand."  
  
"His kids aren't that bad, are they?" Stan asks, though he knows that's not what Kyle means. Kyle shrugs.  
  
"They're teenagers. Whatever. You know, I don't feel like a lonely old man in my day to day life. I really don't. It's South Park that brings it out in me, but, also, you're here."  
  
"I am," Stan says, glad to see the waiter approaching again.  
  
The rest of the meal is fine, though Stan keeps getting distracted, studying Kyle's face and lips when he should be listening to his stories about Dallas, his co-workers, and his parents. Stan doesn't say much, would rather listen, and after the plates are cleared he realizes that Kyle is perturbed by how quiet he's been. He's rambling more frantically in response to Stan's lack of input.  
  
"I might get you to make me a coffee table," Kyle says. "I would pay you, of course. I just can't find anything that fits my apartment."  
  
"I could do a coffee table." Stan became a master carpenter at forty. He used to work a lot more, on-site and with furniture, before he had to move back home.  
  
"It's just that I don't have any pictures of my place," Kyle says. Stan can hear a slight tremble in his voice, maybe because he's on his third cup of what looks like strong tea. "So, you. You would have to come and see it for yourself."  
  
"I'd love that," Stan says. "Maybe, uh. I could get Shelly to come down and watch Dad for a weekend." He knows it will never happen, even as he says it. Kyle seems similarly unconvinced, frowning.  
  
"I don't see why Jimbo can't do it."  
  
"He's -- ah, God, Kyle. They live like animals up there. I mean it's fine, for them, but my dad in that cabin, with no real plumbing? And it's really just a one room kind of deal. I can't ask them to let Randy sleep at the foot of their bed. And it would confuse the shit out of him--"  
  
"Jimbo and Ned," Kyle says, running his fingertip around the rim of his teacup. "Still together. And you're like their surrogate son, aren't you? Now that Randy's mentally checked out?"  
  
"Kyle."  
  
"Sorry. I'm sorry." Kyle looks around desperately, and Stan gets the sense that he is the thing Kyle is searching for, though he's sitting right here. "No, it's good. I'm glad you have them, Christ. Without that it would just be, what? Cartman and Butters?"  
  
"Yeah, that'd be tough." Stan actually enjoys his time with those two, more often than not. Cartman is easy to be with in that he doesn't require much more from a friend than someone to listen to him rant without objecting, and Butters is a happy homemaker who dotes on Stan and Randy when he's not servicing Cartman's every whim. He brought peanut butter squares over to the house just last week, and helped Stan clean the gutters.  
  
"It's not like I have loads of friends," Kyle says. "But I have my work."  
  
"Well, I guess I've got mine, too, Kyle."  
  
"I don't mean to offend you or anything." Kyle looks annoyed. "I don't know what I mean to do. This place, and you -- it reverses my polarity."  
  
"That makes sense," Stan says, and he means it.  
  
Kyle insists on paying, and Stan doesn't have the heart to refuse him. Outside, the day is still offensively bright, and Stan wants to drive around for a while, maybe go up to Stark's Pond and marvel alongside Kyle that it hasn't frozen over yet -- and this nearly the end of November! But he figures Sheila is probably sick of Randy by now, and he's not sure he really wants to see the unfrozen pond right now.  
  
"I'm flying back on Friday," Kyle says. "If. I mean, tomorrow night, my folks will be passed out by ten."  
  
"I probably will be, too," Stan says, but saying so feels too cruel. "But, hey. I'll give you a call. Maybe we could smoke."  
  
"Pot makes me nuts," Kyle mumbles. This is information Stan already has. He reaches over to touch Kyle's knee, his hand shaking.  
  
"We'll see each other," Stan says. "Either way. Friday morning, too, if you're free."  
  
"Of course I'm free! Oh. Stan--" Kyle puts his hands over his face.  
  
"It's okay." Stan reaches up to smooth Kyle's hair and rub his neck, keeping his eyes on the road. "It's alright, dude."  
  
"It's all my fault," Kyle says, his hands nearly muffling this.  
  
"Not really. Not at all."  
  
"Well, it feels that way, most of the time. Don't tell me I'm wrong. I'm too fragile to be corrected right now."  
  
"Okay, but. I'm here. Don't be sad."  
  
He feels like an asshole, issuing this instruction, but it seems to help. Kyle takes Stan's hand and kisses it as they pull up to his parents' house. There's a rental car parked in the driveway, a big self-driver with a windshield-to-trunk moon roof.  
  
"Look at that fucking thing," Kyle says. He holds Stan's hand against his cheek, breathing hotly onto his knuckles. "He's so tacky."  
  
Despite Kyle's judgment of Ike's rental car selection, he throws his arms around his brother enthusiastically when they're inside, laughing and hugging him tight. Ike seems equally glad to see Kyle, and only makes fun of his hair color a little. Stan gives him a quick hug and waves to the teenagers who are slumped around Sheila's kitchen table. He's always sad that none of them look like Kyle, though of course they don't.  
  
"You two are welcome to come eat here tomorrow!" Sheila says as she shepherds Randy from Gerald's office.  
  
"Ma, I told you," Kyle says. "They have Jimbo and Ned over. They fry things."  
  
"The turkey," Stan says, though Jimbo does sometimes fry other things, such as corn cobs. He also deep fried beer-filled dough once, and it was surprisingly good.  
  
"Oh, that's right," Sheila says. "I never see those two in town."  
  
"They're pretty, uh, self-sufficient." Stan waves to Gerald, who has come to the door of his office, football sounds emanating from within.  
  
"We should hang out," Ike says, and Stan nods. Ike is fifty-one but could pass for a guy in his mid-thirties. His wife is objectively hot and doesn't get along with Sheila. Stan hasn't spotted her but assumes she's here, based on the large purse that has appeared on the sofa.  
  
"I'd better get going," he says, not wanting to get stuck in a full-on small talk session. He turns to Kyle, who is standing beside Gerald, looking tired. "Thanks for lunch," Stan says, feeling as if everyone is staring at them, all of them having gone quiet.  
  
"It was nothing," Kyle says, and Stan feels like he's been punched. "We'll be in touch," Kyle adds as Stan turns to leave.  
  
"Yeah," Stan says, because of course they will. They can't resist each other, if their circumstances are even somewhat aligned. Once, in Denver, after a meeting with their attorneys concerning the divorce that was never finalized, they fucked in the building's fourth floor men's room ten minutes after shouting at each other in the presence of the lawyers. Afterward they went to Carl's Jr. together and stuffed down cheeseburgers like a couple of experienced addicts who knew they needed food to absorb the poison they'd just consumed.  
  
"That was Kyle," Randy says as they're driving away. "Your little -- your little friend from school?"  
  
"Yep, that was him."  
  
"You, ah." Randy strokes his mustache as if consulting its wisdom. "You married him, didn't you? One time?"  
  
"Yeah, one time. I did."  
  
"I remember -- two grooms, yeah. And some real fruity music. No offense. I always thought it would be easier between two guys, in a way. I guess not."  
  
"No, not really."  
  
"It's hard." Randy sighs tremendously, staring out the window. He's slumped into his coat like a kid who is resigned to being dropped off at school. "I wish your mother would move back home."  
  
"Me too," Stan says. He would even take a zombie at this point, just to have someone else there. Just so he could go to Dallas, consult about Kyle's coffee table, and never leave.  
  
**  
  
On Thanksgiving morning, Stan gets up early to cook. Jimbo and Ned do the turkey and usually a vegetable, and Butters always brings at least one dessert. Stan does the casseroles: broccoli and stuffing. Randy alternates between watching him cook and wandering into the living room to cycle through the available football games. Stan has to tell him five times that the Broncos aren't playing until eight. Around noon he hears Jimbo's truck in the driveway and goes out to help him with the fryer.  
  
“You haven't plucked it yet?” Stan asks when Ned climbs out of the truck bed with a massive dead turkey, feathers and all.  
  
“We just shot him!” Jimbo says. He thrusts a mesh bag full of russet potatoes into Stan's hand. “You think your dad could handle peeling those?”  
  
“I doubt it. Really – guys. I don't know if I want you cleaning that thing in the backyard. You know how I am about blood.”  
  
“He faints!” Jimbo says to Ned, clapping his hand onto Stan's shoulder. “This guy faints if he even thinks about blood. But the thing's already dead, Stan. What's the big deal?”  
  
Stan doesn't really have much of a choice: they head into the backyard to set up their butchering equipment and the fryer, which Jimbo won't allow Stan to carry, though Jimbo has a bad back and should really admit to himself that he can't hoist the thing without straining himself anymore. Randy wanders out while Stan is overseeing their setup.  
  
“What's with these yokels?” Randy asks.  
  
“They're cooking for us. It's Thanksgiving – Dad, you know Jimbo. He's your half-brother.”  
  
“There he is!” Jimbo says, noticing Randy. “How's it hanging, Rand-o?”  
  
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Ned adds, not looking up from the bird, which is draped across his lap, being plucked.  
  
“Where's your mother?” Randy asks, grabbing Stan's arm when he tries to go into the house with the potatoes. “She's supposed to be doing all this.”  
  
“Mom's not here, okay? We can do Thanksgiving without her, it's alright. Butters and Cartman are coming, too. I told Butters to make pumpkin pie. He's got Mom's recipe – you liked it last year, remember? It's just as good as hers was.”  
  
“No, no,” Randy says, mumbling, but he seems to have lost steam, and he allows Jimbo to guide him into a folding chair beside Ned's. As Stan goes into the house, feeling exhausted already, he hears Jimbo crack open the first beers of the day.  
  
Stan finishes the casseroles, wraps them in foil and takes a shower. The house isn't especially clean, but none of their guests are particularly cleanly themselves, aside from Butters, who is too polite to let it bother him. Standing under the hot water, Stan thinks about calling Kyle, though he isn't sure what he would say. He's been thinking about Kyle all morning, how ancillary he must feel in the presence of Ike's family. He'll be thinking about the four Thanksgivings they had with Charlie, how different that was. Ike was still a sullen young man then, single and floundering in college despite his genius, and Kyle was the one who was resplendent with a parental glow, Charlie dressed in a little sweater vest and sitting in Kyle's lap, clinging to Kyle's tie while Sheila and Gerald took pictures and cooed at him. Kyle had insisted they all dress up for Thanksgiving, though he said he knew it was silly. Stan wasn't fooled: to Kyle it wasn't silly at all. It was an opportunity to parade his family out for Sheila and Gerald, and then for Randy and Sharon, to show everyone that he had done it, that he had everything he'd dreamed of ever since he fell in love with Stan as a boy.  
  
In honor of those happier times, Stan puts on a nice shirt and tucks it in, even wears a belt. He shaves off his beard and uses the blow dryer on his hair for the first time in years. When he reappears in the backyard the turkey has been expertly plucked and trimmed. Jimbo is tying twine around the legs, preparing it for the fryer. Randy seems happy enough, sipping from a beer can and watching the other two work.  
  
“Look at you, all fancy,” Jimbo says. He's wearing his usual uniform of a flannel shirt, hunting vest and sagging jeans.  “Anybody other than Eric and the missus coming to dinner?”  
  
“No,” Stan says, tired of his uncle's insinuations that he should try to date. Even if there were eligible gay men in South Park, who would want to sit on the sidelines and watch him babysit Randy? “Was Cartman with you this morning?” Stan asks, nodding to the turkey. Cartman and Jimbo go hunting together all the time, and Cartman is really more of a surrogate son to Jimbo and Ned than Stan ever has been. They all think the government is out to take everything from them, and that they need to be ready to fend for themselves during the inevitable societal collapse that they've long anticipated.  
  
“Nah, Eric was still sleeping when I called over there. Butters was up, though, baking and so forth. We'll be eating good tonight.” He squeezes Stan's shoulder in a way that feels pitying, and Stan goes to the cooler to get a beer.  
  
Cartman and Butters show up an hour later, Butters' arms overflowing with baked goods. Cartman has brought beer as well, and Stan knows they'll all be drunk in an hour or so if they aren't already. He'll have to stay pretty clear-headed himself, since he texted Kenny about dropping by later. It's a holiday tradition that they mutually dread, but Stan can't seem to let it go.  
  
“Stan, you're looking less homeless than usual,” Cartman says, presumably referring to his lack of a beard. Butters dumps the foil-wrapped baked goods on the kitchen counter and gives Stan a tremendous hug that he actually appreciates.  
  
“You look great!” Butters says. “So much younger, without all that hair covering up your cute face.” He pats Stan's cheek and Cartman grunts jealously.  
  
“I saw the Jew at King Sooper's with his mother yesterday,” Cartman says. “He been around to blow you yet?”  
  
“Eric,” Butters says, swatting at him. “How is Kyle?” he asks when he turns back to Stan, looking nervous about the question.  
  
“He's fine. I had lunch with him yesterday. He, uh. Lives in Dallas now.”  
  
“Yeah, we know,” Cartman says, as if Stan is pathetic for not being able to offer them any new information about Kyle. He's distressed when he realizes that he can't, because he wasn't listening well enough at lunch yesterday. All he knows is that Kyle is in the market for a new coffee table.  
  
In the backyard, the turkey is frying and Ned is slicing up the potatoes with a ridiculously over-sized knife. They will fry, too, Stan assumes. He needs to turn the oven on, reheat the casseroles, but he doesn't feel well. He's dizzy, a little short of breath, and every time this happens he first thinks that this might be it, the moment when he has a stroke that will make him more useless than Randy, somebody's drooling patient. This thought is always followed by an awful image of him and Randy both living in the attic at Shelly's house in Michigan, neighborhood children telling stories about the crazy old men whose haunted faces occasionally appear in the attic window, and then comes the thought that he should probably see a doctor.  
  
“Hey, have a beer,” Cartman says, appearing with one. “You look like you're gonna hurl.”  
  
“So a beer is the answer?” Stan cracks it open and takes a deep breath. It's just psychosomatic, he thinks. Panic, or whatever. He thinks of Kyle saying he'll be sixty in five years, and how that is somehow true.  
  
“Just relax,” Cartman says, clicking his beer can against Stan's. “It's a holiday, we're celebrating here.” Cartman actually looks worried about Stan, which makes him laugh genuinely for the first time in a while.  
  
It ends up being a good time, as usual with this crowd. They do have the ability to cheer Stan up: Jimbo and Cartman with their competing loudness and Butters with his easy laugh and unrelenting boyishness. Even Ned's presence makes Stan happy, because Jimbo is ridiculous, but Ned seems continually amazed by him, nodding along with Jimbo's stories like he's hearing a great sermon. Randy mostly chuckles under his breath and drinks beer, not really keeping up but entertained enough not to complain.  
  
By the time the food is ready it's too cold to linger outside, and Stan sets the kitchen table in a makeshift way, mismatched silverware on paper napkins. The turkey is perfect and the fried potatoes were a good idea. Stan's casseroles turned out okay. He gets a little tipsy and wonders if he should bother going over to Kenny's place after all. Butters and Cartman are telling stories about their cats. Cartman is a licensed Turkish Angora breeder who has been going to cat shows for twenty years. People have come from Utah and Oklahoma just to buy his cats. He and Butters are perpetually covered in white cat hair.  
  
“When are you going to let me sell you the best thing that's ever happened to you?” Cartman asks Stan.  
  
“I'm more of a dog person.”  
  
“Turkies have been described as quite dog-like in demeanor!” Butters says.  
  
“Don't call them Turkies, Butters,” Cartman says. “But he's right. Look, I could give you a discount. Five hundred dollars for a cat with championship blood is a steal.”  
  
“I'm sure it is,” Stan says, and for a moment he's incredibly jealous of them, picturing them going home after this to sit on the couch and watch TV with their army of elegant white cats, together in their weird little life. They were both married to women in their twenties, both got cleaned out in their divorces and ended up back in South Park, living with their parents until their thirties, when they bought a modest house together. “I just don't have time for a pet,” Stan says when they launch into their dual Turkish Angora sales pitch.  
  
“Nonsense,” Cartman says, but Stan sees him glance at Randy, who is dozing in his seat, arms crossed over his chest and his head tipped back. Stan knows exactly what will happen when Liane can't take care of herself anymore: Butters will do all the work, will be the perfect caregiver. His own parents cut ties with him when he came out as Cartman's boyfriend, and they don't live in South Park anymore. Butters will be glad to have Liane with them when the time comes, and Cartman will look on fondly as the love of his life takes care of his mother like she's their child. It's a weird thing to envy.  
  
Randy wakes up to have dessert, and Stan slips into the den to put his coat on. It's getting late, and he doesn't want to miss Charlie, who might be driving back to Fort Collins tonight.  
  
“I'm stepping out for a bit,” he calls into the kitchen. “Just gonna drop in and say hello.” It's not like everyone here doesn't know where he's going, with the exception of Randy, who would be telling Stan not to torture himself if he was cognizant enough to remember Stan's late night Thanksgiving tradition.  
  
“Why can't you adopt another kid?” he used to say, as if he might have replaced Stan or Shelly just as easily.  
  
The temperature has dropped and the forecast says there will be snow. Stan walks to the McCormick house, because he's had three beers and it's not far. The old McCormick house, the one Kenny grew up in, has been demolished along with the rest of the beat up houses in that neighborhood. There's a gas station there now, and a self storage complex.  
  
This house is much nicer, two stories with a neat front yard and several nice cars in the driveway. One of them is Charlie's: the self-driving Honda, an expensive model with one of the highest safety ratings. Kenny doesn't make much as the manager of the local movie theater, but his second wife, Haley, is a pediatrician. She was Charlie's pediatrician, once – not when Stan and Kyle had him, but after Kenny took him back. Haley helped them both with the difficult transition, apparently. Stan heard all this from Karen; he hasn't talked seriously with Kenny since the trial, just politely.  
  
Karen is the one who answers the door, and Stan is grateful to her for knowing that she should. She steps out onto the front porch and gives him a long hug, patting his back.  
  
“You okay?” she asks when she pulls back to look at him. “Oh, your beard.”  
  
“Yeah, I shaved it. I'm fine. Just – wanted to say hi.”  
  
“Sure, yeah. I'm about to leave myself. I want to get on the road before the snow starts. Everybody okay over at your place?”  
  
“Yep, same as ever.”  
  
Stan's heart starts beating hard as he walks into the McCormick house. It's warm, there's a fire going in the empty living room, and he can smell coffee and cinnamon. There's lots of talk from the kitchen, a kind of humid coziness seeping outward from it. Karen squeezes his arm.  
  
“I'll tell Chuck you're here,” she says. Stan nods, struggling not to wince at that name. When Bebe was alive, the baby was called Charlie. Kenny shouldn't have changed it just to spite Stan and Kyle, for her sake if nothing else.  
  
Charlie comes walking out of the kitchen a few minutes later, and a mousy young woman in an over-sized sweater follows him out, holding his hand. The sleeve of her sweater is so long that it covers part of Charlie's hand, too, and something about this makes Stan think of Kyle. It hurts to smile at Charlie and think of Kyle at the same time, but that's always the case during these visits.  
  
“Hey!” Charlie says, and his smile seems so genuine, Stan doesn't know why he spends so much time trying to convince himself that Charlie doesn't want to see him, that this is an unwanted nicety for him. They hug, and Stan tries not to put too much into it, which isn't very difficult. He's always had a hard time reconciling this grown man with the little boy who slept between him and Kyle in bed, hugging a stuffed whale. And yet he can't stop checking in on Charlie; he still can't let him go for good.  
  
“You look great,” Stan says. Charlie is taller than him, has been for a while, though he never got quite as tall as Kenny. He looks just like Kenny until he smiles widely or laughs, and then Stan can see Bebe in him, the way she seemed to float through life, carefree and adored.  
  
“This is Miranda,” Charlie says, pulling the mousy girl forward by the hand. “My girlfriend, um. Mir, this is Stan Marsh, he was—” Charlie looks at Stan and they both laugh nervously; Stan can feel the flush on the back of his neck spreading. “He's one of the guys who raised me when my dad was missing. He lives here in town,” Charlie adds, and Stan feels bad for him, for this awkwardness. He shakes the girl's hand, which is cool and tiny.  
  
“It's nice to meet you,” she says. “It's crazy how that happened. Chuck was just telling me.”  
  
“It was crazy,” Stan says. “But we were – we were happy to help.”  
  
“How's Kyle doing?” Charlie asks. He's stopped expecting Kyle to show up someday at Stan's side during these visits. Kyle tried, once, when Kenny first gave them permission to visit Charlie, who was nine years old at the time and hadn't seen them in four years. It didn't go well, for Kyle.  
  
“Kyle's fine,” Stan says. “He's still living in Texas, doing consulting work. Kyle was my husband,” Stan explains to Miranda, hating the past tense, though it would be far more strange to use the present, even if it is accurate. “When, um, when we had Charlie – Chuck, I mean,” he says, wincing at himself, but Charlie grins.  
  
“It's fine,” he says. “Karen still calls me that sometimes.”  
  
Karen. Stan nods to himself, feeling dizzy again. Karen had begged them to take the baby after Kenny and Bebe's accident. She'd just been accepted to a prestigious research program in nano media that required moving to Belfast. Everything was set up; she was due to leave in a week when Kenny and Bebe drowned in Crystal Lake during a boating trip. Carol had been arrested for assaulting a police officer when Kenny was in high school and was still locked up somewhere, and Stuart had fucked off years ago. Kevin was in no shape to take care of anyone. Bebe's father had died young and her mother had been in and out of psychiatric treatment ever since. Stan and Kyle had been married for five years, had just bought a house in the suburbs, had been Kenny's best friends since pre-school. Kyle was hesitant, but Stan couldn't refuse Karen's pleas. As soon as she put Charlie in his arms he felt intensely protective of the little boy, who was only six months old when his parents died.  
  
“Dad's in the kitchen,” Charlie says, and Stan feels bad for having gone quiet. He shakes his head.  
  
“No, I don't want to interrupt your family.” He'd meant to say 'meal,' but surely they were done eating, so it came out as 'family.' He sees Charlie's face fall with sympathy and he shakes his head. “It's alright,” he says, not sure what he's dismissing – all of it, everything. They had loved him so much, and it seems unreal now, standing before this man who grew up just fine without them. That had seemed impossible, once, that Charlie could ever be okay without his parents who loved him, his real parents, biology notwithstanding. Stan and Kyle had changed his diapers and taught him to read and helped him stumble along through all his first steps. He had been the center of their world; they took so many pictures. They took him to Disney World and Whistlin' Willy's, to the Denver Aquarium and county fairs where Charlie would get his face painted and hold Stan's hand as they made their way through the little petting zoo. Then Kenny was alive, suddenly and inexplicably. For half a year he watched jealously as Stan and Kyle raised Charlie, gritting his teeth and agreeing that it was for the best, but finally he couldn't take it anymore, and he filed to have the adoption dissolved. Stan has forgiven Kenny, because he knows what it's like now, watching from across town as someone else cares for your child.  
  
“I'll let you get back in there,” Stan says after more small talk, mostly about Charlie's graduate program and career aspirations. “Miranda, it was nice to meet you. You guys drive safe when you head back to school.”  
  
“Tell Kyle I said hello,” Charlie says, like always, and Stan has to nod quickly and turn, like always, because his eyes are watering. He wants to believe that Charlie still remembers Kyle not just as a former caretaker with bright red hair but as someone who loved him fiercely, who would have done anything for him. Kyle had tried to convince Stan that they should kidnap Charlie after the verdict came down in favor of Kenny. Kyle, who has always honored rules and respected the law, had looked at Stan and talked about committing a felony with absolute sincerity, sketching out a plan. When Kyle saw that Stan was scared for him and not compliant, the thing that had always held them together broke. Stan remembers seeing the change in Kyle's eyes, feeling the tether snap. He remembers thinking that he couldn't lose Kyle, too, and knowing that he would.  
  
When he gets outside, his eyes clear quickly. Time hasn't really healed, but it does provide a kind of buffer against the things he can't deal with on a daily basis anymore. He wipes his face and smiles when he sees Kyle standing across the street, half-hidden behind an inflatable snowman in the neighbor's yard. Stan walks to him and puts out his hand. Kyle takes it and falls into step beside Stan, walking away from the McCormick house. He's wearing soft gloves and what looks like one of Gerald's old coats. It's a little too small for him, the buttons straining over his chest.  
  
"I tried to see you guys through the window," Kyle says. "I couldn't."  
  
"You could have come in. He asks about you – he told me to say hello to you."  
  
"Of course he did, but. No, that's not – I can't do that anymore. You know I can't, Stan."  
  
"I know." Stan puts his arm around Kyle and pulls him close, walking with Kyle tucked to his side. "How was your Thanksgiving?"  
  
"Well, I don't know, the jury's still out. It's only nine o'clock. But dinner was fine, it was good. Ike's kids are charming, of course. They're smart. They're not related to me, not really."  
  
"Oh, sure they are. Ike's your brother, for real." He pauses, considering how this might play out, but finally he can't stop himself from saying it. "Like Charlie was our son. For real, he was."  
  
"He was," Kyle says, softly. "I know that. You don't have to tell me that. I haven't forgotten."  
  
"I'm making him some book ends for Christmas," Stan says. He was going to make Kyle a set of wooden bowls as a holiday gift, but now he'll make a coffee table. Sight unseen, he feels like he could come up with a good one to fit the space, Kyle's life.  
  
"Do you remember—" Kyle hesitates, pressing against Stan more firmly. "Christmas, when he was three? We stayed up all night—"  
  
"Setting up that little town play set, yeah. You were so into it."  
  
"I was! You were, you were-- oh, god, we spent so much money that year. But it was worth it, you know? His little face when he saw everything spread out like that, all the farm animals and the plastic cars. Sweet baby," Kyle says, to himself, as if he's looking at a picture.  
  
"I remember," Stan says. It was their last real Christmas with Charlie. They still had him the following year, but Kenny was back in town, looming. "He has a new girlfriend, by the way. Miranda. She was cute, skinny with glasses."  
  
"Pretty soon he'll have his own kids," Kyle says, nodding to himself. Stan squeezes him and kisses his temple.  
  
"I miss you so much," Stan says, murmuring. Kyle closes his eyes and makes a pained little sound, as if Stan has stepped on his foot.  
  
"I just can't – I can't live here, Stan, not with Kenny lurking around every corner—"  
  
 "I know, it's okay—"  
  
"And worse, all these memories. I almost lost it in the shower this morning, remembering when we'd give him a bath there, at my parents' house, how my mom taught me the way to hold him in the water, how nervous I was to do something wrong, because he wasn't really mine—"  
  
"He was ours, Kyle, for a little while. He was, and you did everything right. He loved you so much."  
  
"You could come to Dallas with Randy," Kyle says, turning to Stan, almost as wild-eyed as he was when he asked Stan which country they should flee to after they'd kidnapped Charlie.  
  
"Kyle. What – we'd live in your apartment? Me and Randy? No, he'd drive you crazy."  
  
"It drives me crazy thinking of you here! Alone, with him, and Kenny over there with his brood of new children, the new wife – he could have had all that anyway, Stan! He didn't have to take Charlie, too!"  
  
"I know." Stan kisses Kyle's forehead. They've said all of this so many times, though the thing about Stan moving to Dallas with Randy is new. "I know, dude, but I'm okay."  
  
"There's just got to be some way," Kyle says, mumbling.  
  
Stan doesn't remind him that things weren't so great even before Sharon died, when they were living together again, in Denver. After their grief-fueled blowouts following the loss of Charlie, they'd spent some time apart. Stan went to live with Wendy in Boston, where she was finishing her residency at Tufts. After Kyle's initial rage petered out he was nearly catatonic with depression, and Sheila had him enrolled in an inpatient treatment program for months. When Stan came back to town, Kyle was out of the asylum and presenting him with divorce papers. Stan begged to have Kyle back in response, and they reunited, but their old problems crept up on them before long, and new divorce papers were assembled. It was like this every time they tried to make it work again, skirting around the gap between them where Charlie had been. In Denver, Stan drank too much and Kyle worked all the time, which hurt Stan's feelings and caused arguments about money. Adding a dementia-addled Randy to the mix in a city where Stan knows no one but Kyle wouldn't exactly lessen the pressure.  
  
"Come spend the night with me," Stan says. "It's supposed to snow," he adds, as if this justifies the request. Kyle smiles at him and leans up to rub his cheek against Stan's.  
  
"I like this better," he says. "No beard."  
  
"Is that a yes?"  
  
"Oh, of course it is, Stan. As if there's anything I want more than to sleep with you."  
  
When they reach Stan's house the party has broken up and the dishes are in the sink. Cartman and Butters have gone home, leaving plenty of baked goods behind in their wake. Jimbo and Ned are passed out on the couch, spooning. They fit there neatly, Ned's smallness corresponding to Jimbo's enormity. Stan checks on his dad and is glad to find him asleep in his bed, though he's still dressed and lying on top of the blankets. Stan removes Randy's shoes, pulls a quilt over him, and goes to his own bedroom, where Kyle is waiting. Kyle has taken off his shoes, coat and gloves and is stretched out on Stan's bed, his hands folded over his stomach. Stan shuts the door behind him and kneels down to unlace his boots.  
  
"This old room," Kyle says, his voice wavering a little. They lost their virginity to each other here. They also slept here on their wedding night, waking at five in the morning to drive to the Denver airport and catch a plane to their honeymoon in Costa Rica. Kyle got a stomach bug the second day and they spent most of the trip in their little cabana, watching the rain, but Stan loved it. They had a good view of the jungle, and he could have sat there for years, Kyle bundled into his arms while birds flitted through the leaves near the balcony, flashes of color appearing here and there, quickly gone.  
  
"Will you be back for Christmas?" Stan asks when he walks to the bed, undoing his belt.  
  
"I don't celebrate Christmas, Stan."  
  
"I know, but will you?"  
  
"Sure, yes. I get time off of work, anyway. I'll come."  
  
"Good." Stan flops into the bed and rolls Kyle toward him, rubbing Kyle's shoulder with his thumb. Kyle smiles at him. He seems nervous.  
  
"I miss you, too," Kyle whispers, and he gives Stan a soft, lingering kiss. "I try – but nothing feels like you and me. Maybe I'm just too old."  
  
"You're not so old." Stan cups Kyle's cheek and nuzzles his face, shivering happily. "I still feel like – like I did back then, when I'm here, in this bed, with you."  
  
"Back then?"  
  
"When we were kids. First kiss and first – all that."  
  
"Remember?" Kyle grins and reaches down to undo the button on Stan's pants, reenacting their first truly sexual act together. Kyle had done this, just like this: unzipped Stan's jeans, taken hold of his cock and weighed it in his hand as if he was doing so out of scientific curiosity. Stan is hard in Kyle's grip now, fumbling to get Kyle's pants open, because that's what he did back then, wordlessly agreeing to Kyle's game plan.  
  
"Your bush is looking kind of old, I'll admit," Stan says, pushing Kyle's underwear down, and Kyle laughs.  
  
"I've thought about dyeing it," he says. He moans and presses their cocks together in his hand. "Yours is so lovely."  
  
"My pubes?"  
  
"No, this, your cock."  
  
"Oh, that."  
  
They both laugh and kiss, squirming together, rolling their hips. Stan feels transported, not just back to the past but outside of the world, to a place where nothing can touch the way this feels, their completeness. He puts his hand over Kyle's and they stroke their cocks together, breathing hard like overwhelmed kids. Back then, after they came, Stan had asked Kyle to be his boyfriend, and he'd been so hurt when Kyle laughed. Kyle had to kiss him a lot and explain over and over that he was only laughing because he never thought this would really happen. It was like finding a golden ticket in a candy bar, he said, like walking into the candy factory and being told he could have it all, everything he could fit in his mouth.  
  
"This is the good part of being old," Kyle says, huffing his breath against Stan's lips and staring down at their dicks. "Lasting longer."  
  
"Yeah, s'great," Stan says, and they laugh again. Stan tries to kiss Kyle hard enough to make him stay, though he knows that Kyle can't live here, in this moment. There are other, bigger things that will squash this if they're allowed to. Still, Stan kisses Kyle like he can keep him, and Kyle kisses back like he's telling Stan it's true, that he's here to stay again, for real.  
  
"I don't know if I can come," Kyle says, grabbing Stan's arm and squeezing hard, "Unless you're in me."  
  
"Kyle—"  
  
"I just crave it, Stan, I dream about it—"  
  
"I know— I mean, shh, okay. Let me get something."  
  
By something he means lube, which he doesn't own anymore, but he has lotion. They take it slow, like last Thanksgiving. It's a tradition at this point, their reunion in Stan's bed. Every year, Stan is afraid that Kyle will come home with some man who will negate their old connection, and every year Kyle comes home alone, for him.  
  
"I could get a woman pregnant, you know," Kyle says when they're lying together afterward, Stan stroking his fingers through Kyle's curls.  
  
"What?" Stan says, not sure he heard that right.  
  
"I mean, my sperm still works. There are women who would do it for money. Carry the baby and turn it over, you know, legally, to me. At least, I think that's legal. I'd have to look into it more."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Stan sits up on his elbow and peers down at Kyle, who is still wearing his sweater, naked from the waist down.  
  
"I'm talking about a second chance," Kyle says, his voice beginning to shake. He'd cried a little when Stan first slid into him; they both had, sniffling while they kissed. "We're not dead, Stan," Kyle says. "Not yet, even if you want to act like you are."  
  
"I don't want to act like anything."  
  
"Well, I don't know about that. Why can't you just drive him up to Michigan and dump him on Shelly's doorstep? You've taken care of him for five years! It's her turn – she's got that big house, all her kids have left for college—"  
  
"It's not that simple, dude."  
  
"I don't see why not! And then you could come – come live with me, and we could see about getting a baby. I want one who's really mine, from my fucking sperm, okay, or yours. One they couldn't take away."  
  
"Kyle." Stan drops down to the pillow again and holds him. Kyle is trembling, and he clings hard, scooting down to hide his face against Stan's chest. "If you – we – even if you could find some woman to agree to this, you'd be seventy-three when the kid turned eighteen."  
  
"So? Seventy-three is not that old anymore, Stan. Fifty-five certainly isn't. God, I'm not just going to sit back and say, welp, looks like we blew our chance! I'm not comfortable with that."  
  
"I know," Stan says. He pets Kyle's hair, waiting for him to stop trembling. The snow has started outside, just a whisper against the fogged window. Stan loves looking at Kyle like this, naked except for a sweater, but it's getting cold. He pulls the blankets up over both of them, tucking them around Kyle's back. "It would be enough if I could take care of you," he says. "For me, that'd be enough."  
  
"Well, not for me. I want all of it, Stan. I want Christmas morning and petting zoos and a fucking bar mitzvah. It's not too late."  
  
Stan doesn't know what to say to that, except that it probably is too late. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine it, some kind of parallel universe where Kyle's plans could actually work, but mostly he just remembers Charlie. Kyle had been very particular about dressing him, and they used to go shopping for his clothes in Denver, little button up shirts and argyle sweaters, corduroy pants. Charlie was a very patient child – he got that from Kenny, they'd always said – and he would allow Kyle to dress him in whatever they wanted, trying on clothes at department stores in exchange for the promise of an ice cream sundae on the way home. He would fall asleep on the drive back to the suburbs, sugar crashed, and Stan would carry him into the house like that, passed out with his head on Stan's shoulder. He'd called them both Daddy. When DFCS came to take him, Stan and Kyle told him that he was just taking a trip to visit their friend Kenny, who he had met and was essentially indifferent to, and that he could come home soon. Stan was lying to spare Charlie and himself the trauma of an actual goodbye. Kyle was telling the truth, as far as he knew, since they were appealing the court's decision. The appeal was denied a few months later.  
  
"Let's stay up all night talking and fucking," Kyle says, mumbling this against Stan's chest. Stan can hear from his voice that he won't be awake much longer. "Like the old days."  
  
"Okay," Stan says, to spare Kyle the trauma of an actual goodbye. His flight back to Dallas leaves early in the morning. Stan kisses Kyle's hair as he sinks into sleep. He would be happy if Kyle came home, here, to live with him, but he knows Kyle couldn't do it. It's hard for him to be back in South Park for even a few days. Stan was devastated by what happened, but for Kyle it was something even worse, like his legitimacy as a person was undone. He's reconstructed it elsewhere, but here, even in Stan's bed, he again becomes the embodiment of loss, forced to survey the hollow place where he thought his life would be.  
  
The morning is icy, and Stan wakes when he hears somebody opening and closing cabinets down in the kitchen. It's probably Jimbo, hunting for coffee. Kyle is awake but bleary, still curled up against Stan's chest. Stan moves down to kiss his face, pressing his knee up between Kyle's legs under the blankets.  
  
"Don't ever let me go," Kyle says, his voice creaky and small.  
  
"I won't," Stan says, and he's not lying, though in an hour Kyle will be in Sheila's car, on his way to the airport, and Stan will be here. It doesn't mean as much as Stan feared it would, the physical distance and the months spent apart. He can still come back here, to this place that exists outside of time, and Kyle will be waiting. They haven't let each other go.  
  
They have coffee and some of Butters' cinnamon rolls with Jimbo and Ned. Randy sleeps late and grunts at Stan in annoyance when he goes up to check on him. Kyle is standing in the foyer when he comes back downstairs, wearing his coat.  
  
"I'd better get back," Kyle says. "I have to, you know. Pack everything up, and say goodbye, and—"  
  
He stops talking when Stan pulls him into a hug. Kyle's arms go around him, and they stand like that for a while, Stan rocking him a little, his face pressed into Kyle's hair. It will never again be the same color it was when Stan fell in love with him, because they don't make that color in a hair dye, but the top of Kyle's head still smells so good, like every real home that Stan has ever had.  
  
"I'll be back in a month," Kyle says, his hands going to Stan's waist.  
  
"Good. Look, and maybe. Jimbo and Ned could stay here, at the house, or I could bring Dad up to Michigan to stay with Shelly and Eddie for a while – you're right, they should help. At least for a few weeks, and I could come to Dallas."  
  
"Fuck Dallas!" Kyle says, beaming. "We could go somewhere for two weeks, me and you. Couldn't we? Have a little adventure – I know this guy who owns a fabulous resort up in Big Sur. On a cliff, on the coast – it's amazing. When I was there I couldn't stop thinking about how I wanted you to see it."  
  
"Then I'll see it," Stan says, wondering if Kyle slept with the guy who owns this fabulous resort. He kisses Kyle's forehead. "I love you, okay? Stay safe."  
  
"Stay safe," Kyle says, and he grins mockingly, as if it's outlandish to think that something else could happen, something that could truly separate them. "Yes, you too. Don't lose any fingers to your carpentry." He takes Stan's right hand and kisses each finger, as if he's working a spell. "And I love you, too," he says, whispering.  
  
"Stan?" Randy bellows from the second floor, and Stan groans.  
  
"Yeah, Dad?"  
  
"Where's my bathrobe? I can't find it."  
  
"It's – I'll be right there."  
  
"I'll get going," Kyle says, and he kisses Stan, his lips shaking.  
  
"Call me when you get home."  
  
Kyle laughs sadly and waves. It is strange to refer to Dallas as Kyle's 'home,' if that's what's funny. Stan wanted to walk him to his house, but there would really be no point; it would just be another hard goodbye. He stands at the window near the front door and watches Kyle walk down the driveway, through the freshly fallen snow. Kyle's hands are bare – he forgot his gloves. Maybe on purpose. Stan will kiss them later, alone in bed, every finger.  
  
When Jimbo and Ned have gone home, taking their fryer and half of Butters' goodies with them, Stan flips on a college football game and sits beside Randy on the couch, ignoring the game in favor of sketching a coffee table design. He has some really nice purpleheart wood that he's been saving for a special project, and in the back of his mind he always knew he'd end up using it to make something for Kyle.  
  
 


End file.
